


Close Out

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Headspace, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: Dean’s type, to the extent he has one, doesn’t ask too many questions, lets him stay long enough the morning after to make them both breakfast, and drinks whatever’s on special for two dollars a pop at the local bar.





	Close Out

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the [seasons](http://spnshortstories.tumblr.com/) project, which you can check out over on tumblr. you can even still purchase physical and digital copies of the book -- this fic is on page 316! it was a pleasure to participate and see my work in print. shoutout to [kora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beenghosting/works) and [cecilia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/works) for helping me polish this up for publishing!

Dean’s type, to the extent he has one, doesn’t ask too many questions, lets him stay long enough the morning after to make them both breakfast, and drinks whatever’s on special for two dollars a pop at the local bar.

\-----

John gives Dean some cash as he heads out for the hunt, crumples it into his hand like an afterthought as he steps out the door.

Dean looks down at the bill in his hand, thinks to himself: _Bread, $0.79, peanut butter, $1.80, cereal, $3.68, milk, $2.86._ It would be a stretch to make it last the few days John says this hunt is going to take, but the hunts always take longer than just a few days.

“Dad, wait,” he says.

John stops with the car door half open, raises an eyebrow and says, “What?”

There are empty bottles collecting on the table in Dean’s peripheral vision, more sitting out of sight on the countertop. There are receipts in and around the trashcan, crumpled like the bill in Dean’s hand.

“Nothing,” Dean says, pocketing the cash. “Just, uh. Be safe.”

John grunts and gets in the car, starts the engine. Dean closes the door before his dad drives away.

When Dean gets caught stealing a week later, he doesn’t tell Sonny that even if he didn’t deserve to rot in jail, his dad never would have been able to make his bail.

\-----

Bela keeps a gun under her pillow just like Dean does. She draws the same devil’s traps and lays the same salt lines. She drinks just as heavily, lies just as easily, watches her back just as carefully.

Bela also sleeps on silk sheets. She has a business and a bank account, a Mercedes and an apartment, a separate fridge for her fancy wine. She even has a damn _cat._

Dean wishes he could stop hating her almost as much as he wishes he could stop wanting to be her.

\-----

Dean knows, off the top of his head, the best place to get gas in every state in the continental U.S. and about how much it’ll cost to fill up when he gets there. He knows how much he can expect to spend on a cheeseburger and fries, on a motel room at an hourly or daily or weekly rate. He knows the price of clothes from secondhand stores, of booze from top shelf to bottom, of guns and knives and rock salt.

The first time he takes Lisa on a date -- a real date at the kind of place where you have to wear something you got for more than a couple bucks at Goodwill -- he starts to figure out just how much he doesn’t know. He grabs the bill like he knows he’s supposed to and stares at the receipt in shock, adding up the cost of their two entrees, their shared dessert, a couple drinks, thinking, _This can’t be right._ He looks at the three-figure check and is halfway through calculating how many salt rounds he could make for that price when he’s interrupted by Lisa saying, “Dean? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling, pulling out his wallet. “Of course.” He smoothes the bills out, sticks all the cash he has into the folder with the receipt.

A few days later, he gets the kind of job where they pay you every two weeks via company check instead of under the table. The first one is less than he was expecting, and he stares in mild horror at the little lines of deductions. Google’s explanations make him feel like he should be grateful for the roads he’s spent his life on, the dozens of schools that made up his patchwork education, the firefighters that he can finally admit were doing their best. He knows he’ll never reap any benefits from Social Security or Medicare, so he tries to think of it as another way to help people, an extension of the family business he’s trying to retire from. 

That night, he tells Lisa he wants a joint bank account and winces internally at the way her face lights up when he says it.

He sets up direct deposit at work, and after that, he tucks his pay stubs into a folder in the filing cabinet without bothering to open the envelopes. He tries not to look too hard at the total when he goes to the grocery store, tries not to think about the cost of Ben’s extracurriculars or insurance or the mortgage. He convinces Lisa to cancel their landscaping contract and starts mowing the lawn and raking the leaves himself. Every time they go out to eat, Lisa picks up the tab.

\-----

They have a single rule about hospitals, and it’s that you don’t go unless it’s bad enough that they’ll treat you without asking for payment up front.

Dean doesn’t know shit about copays or coinsurance, premiums or deductibles, lifetime limits or open enrollment. But he knows how to stitch up a gash from a werewolf, how to clean out a bite from a chupacabra, how to keep yourself from bleeding out on a budget.

He also knows a mortal wound when he sees one.

In the temporary quiet that comes after Bobby has been stabilized, somebody hands Dean a bill. He doesn’t look at it until later, after they’ve left the hospital and Sam has gone to sleep. He pulls the crumpled paper out of his jacket pocket and spreads it on the table, takes one look at the number at the bottom and drains the rest of his beer.

Dean always knew he couldn’t afford to live in the real world. Turns out he can’t afford to die in it, either.

\-----

If Dean is lucky, someone will be there to burn his body when his life finally catches up with him. He knows from experience how little it’ll cost them, even if they don’t already have the supplies on hand: _Lighter fluid, $2.50, matches, $0.97, salt, $1.50._ He can be salted and burned for less than the cost of a decent meal.

It’ll take them an hour or two, maybe, to collect wood, build a pyre, but Dean doesn’t figure that in. He knows better than to think a hunter’s time is worth anything.

Whoever they are, Dean hopes they pour one out for him and pick up where he left off.


End file.
